


Self Portrait

by ElapsedSpiral



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crack, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElapsedSpiral/pseuds/ElapsedSpiral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Utterly stupid post-Reichenbach fic. Apologies for being this stupid with what was a beautiful episode. Still, we’re all set for angst, right? Starring Doncaster Lad, Ginger Geoffrey, "Not John" and the man who invented Bananagrams</p><p>Warnings: Mild language. Utter, utter crack. I am, in advance, so sorry. Probably the most ridiculous thing I've ever written, which is saying something. Unbeta'd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self Portrait

John has no intention of ever going on Mastermind. Say he did though. Say he did, he knows exactly what his specialist subject would be: Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes? The detective’s no longer flavour of the month so John Humphries might ask. Yeah, Sherlock Holmes, John would agree. He’s this tit in a hat who I befriended when I realised none of my current mates verbally or psychologically torment me.

It sounds disrespectful, sounds an awful lot like speaking ill of the dead. For a week, John would have done nothing of the sort and would have decked anyone else who might have dared to. His mind raged against the very idea. The only thoughts that would take root in his brain were of Sherlock Holmes, the great detective feeling so cornered, so friendless that he was willing to jump from the roof of St Bart’s. For a week John remembers the man in trembling, heart-wrenching detail: his awkward smiles, the emotion that had sometimes swept over the bravado, the self-doubt. The most human human being he’d ever had the good fortune to meet.

In his mind, for a week, Sherlock Holmes had said “Goodbye John” and fallen to earth, fast, too fast, like a dead weight before his head had even met the pavement.

For a week.

Then, after a goodbye at his best friend’s graveside that left his heart heavy and his head aching, he spots the sod. And not even as a figure so far off that you can pretend to squash them with your fingers. Not so far off he could just be delirious and desperately imagining the apparition. He’s right bloody there in his peripheral vision, looking as perfectly coiffured and Byronically dressed as ever. Sherlock swooshes away before John can yell after him. His phone’s switched off when John tries to ring it.

Even if he’s still ridiculously angry at the man, John can at least take comfort in knowing he was right about one thing: Sherlock Holmes loves himself far too much to smash his head on the pavement of EC1A 7BE.

And that, Humphries, is why John knows without a shadow of a doubt that his specialist subject is Sherlock bloody Holmes.

 

**Question 1: On a scale from one to ten, how good is Sherlock Holmes at disguises?**

Terrible. John’s aware that isn’t a number but feels they ought to make an exception in Sherlock’s case.

He has the feeling that a similar thing happened with Sherlock as with those tone deaf people who wind up wailing their way through Adele on the X Factor. Sherlock’s family, so stunned by his talents as a detective, presumably didn’t have the heart to point out that that talent didn’t extend to disguise.

John had tried to delicately raise the subject on a number of occasions and had always failed miserably, even in the aftermath of Sherlock’s having used his favourite mug as storage space for dead mice. When Ms Adler had broached the topic of Sherlock-the-Vicar (a Holmes classic), John had despaired to see the criticism ping straight off Sherlock’s ego and back into the stratosphere.

Their first run-in is a week after John’s graveside revelation. Having sworn off self-service tills for life, John’s stood in the five items or less queue. He texts his latest love interest – or hopes that’s what he’s doing, he’s got a few Natalies in his phone – and the teenager in front of him slouches off with his bottle of Lucozade and chocolate bar.

“Hi,” a Doncaster lad chirps from behind the till. John looks up from his phone. Their eyes meet. Doncaster Lad grins idiotically. It’s officially the scariest thing John has ever seen.

“Need any help packin’?”

The gel-haired brunet, furiously chewing gum, nods to John’s newspaper, pint of milk and loaf of bread. John’s own teeth develop an urge to grind autonomously.

“Fine. Thanks.”

“Alright,” Doncaster Lad cheerily scans the products, his gaze flying haphazardly across the shelves, queues and customers, evidently stir crazy from being penned in behind his cash desk. The gaze lingers most frequently on John. It also strays, sadly, to the pint of milk.

“D’you have a Nectar card?”

“Yeah,” John hands it to DL and watches him energetically swipe it through the till. He hands over a few pound coins, the till pops open and a receipt is spat out.

“Here,” DL says, handing John his change. Like any old supermarket cashier he feels John’s pulse (and John internally headbutts Sherlock). Coming to his senses, DL notes “You’ve got a voucher as well.”

“Oh right,” John tries to feign interest as he is presented with another slip of paper, separately, in another cupping of hands so tender it attracts the attention of the yummy mummy next in the queue.

“If you come back, within a month, you get double points on your next purchase. See, because,” John is almost certain his face has frozen, for good, in a haunted expression not unlike that he wore the first time he saw the inside of a rugby team’s changing room, “Sometimes people come back. If we wait.”

John cannot possibly formulate a response so he just looks at the gel in Sherlock’s hair and how the light makes it glitter.

“And here’s a schools voucher for free sports equipment.”

John wanders home and forgets to put the milk in the fridge. He gets another pint from Tesco.

**Question 2: Is Sherlock capable of living independently?**

No. Not at all. It would take most people physical effort to come close to being as hopeless as Sherlock. John wonders how he managed to stay in clothes before their lives intersected. He can only assume Mycroft compiled a list of people Sherlock could do favours for to ease him through day-to-day living: rescuing a dry cleaner’s kidnapped son, clearing the sullied name of a greengrocer, finding a landlady with a murderous husband, that sort of thing.

It’s only a month into Sherlock’s “death” when John looks up from the computer in his surgery office to find at his side a timid “student” sporting red hair and a pretentious, multi-coloured jumper, no doubt covering a totally obscure band t-shirt.

“Can I help you?”

John can think of many ways in which he can help Ginger Student Probably Called Geoffrey but they’ll all get him struck off. Ginger Geoffrey wrings his – very sore looking – hands in his lap.

“I was writing some letters to Amnesty International last night-“ and John now knows why Sherlock didn’t have mates at university if he didn’t before, “When I noticed that I was experiencing terrible pain in my hands. My skin is so dry.”

John does his best to examine them with minimal caressing/lingering touches/fingers skirting up to tickle against the veins in his wrist. He breathes out of his nose and nods thoughtfully.

“What are you using to wash your hands with?”

“Well, I’m a Chemistry student,” John knows Ginger Geoffrey’s had to break character because he can’t name enough poets or playwrights to make “English student” stick, “I… might occasionally splash my hands with chemicals.”

“Might?”

“Do,” Ginger Geoffrey toys awkwardly with the hem of his oversized jumper, “And occasionally I extract blood.”

“Occasionally or frequently?”

“Frequently. And I sometimes wash my hands in bleach-“

“Okay,” John puts up one of his own hands, conceding defeat, “Alright. I’m prescribing hand soap. And no experiments for a while. Just nice hand soap.”

“They have some vegan hand soap in Lush, would that work-“

John reminds himself of the Hippocratic Oath. It soothes him.

“Go to Lush. You’ll live.”

“Oh, I’ll live,” Ginger Geoffrey says “cryptically”, rising from his seat.

John’s never had any urge to act. He still gets gooseflesh when he remembers his turn as Shepherd Number Three in his school nativity play, age 6 1/4. That’s what particularly - if he can be so specific - pisses him off about all this. He has to look like he’s soldiering on and that Ginger Geoff’s chance words have unintentionally sent a blade of sadness tearing through his heart. Trickiest of all is looking like he doesn’t just want to twat the man in front of him. He’s expecting a BAFTA in the post after this ordeal.

“Soon, John,” the hinge whispers as the door swings to behind Ginger Geoffrey.

“Oh, for the love of-” John mutters to his screensaver of the cat about to fall off the shelf.

**Question 3: When it comes to details about yourself, John, how observant is Sherlock Holmes?**

It’s strange, actually. For a man who’s capable of looking at someone’s eyebrow and confirming that they’re a waitress Sherlock’s a bit useless when it comes to John. Or, perhaps - and John hopes it isn’t as insulting as all this – Sherlock is so under the impression that he’s a lesser being that he’s apparently settled on “army doctor” as his definitive description of John.

It’s about six months into the embargo. John’s feeling marginally better about things now that he’s had the opportunity to consult a few soap operas to gauge just how his bereavement should be panning out. He needed a feel for how long was acceptable before he could go from distraught to numb to solemn acceptance of his plight to getting a girlfriend without getting tutted at or “For shame!”-ed by Mrs Hudson. Greg had given him a good luck wink when he’d said he was going to a charity Speed Date at the weekend so, John presumes, Coronation Street hasn’t led him astray.

John’s enjoying the opportunity to flex his flirting muscles again. Speed dating was always his strong suit – “Doctor”, “Soldier” and “Cuddling” was, apparently, music to most women (and a few men)’s ears. What Sherlock Holmes was to deduction, John Watson was to seduction. He’d tried to put as much on his blog, once, only to be threatened with the business end of Sherlock’s welding torch.

The buzzer sounds and John saves another number in his mobile with a smile. His gaze shoots up, however, when the lanky newcomer to his table somehow manages to cast a shadow across him.

“I think you’ve got the wrong-oh,” John gives up lamely on the sentence. A blond businessman with slicked hair and a pair of silver framed glasses perched on his nose studies him intently from across the table.

It’s the cheekbones, John decides. Sherlock was doomed to be god awful at disguises because of the cheekbones. They catch the light in their usual mindbogglingly attractive manner as the pair simply stare at each other. John allows himself a soft “oh” of understanding as he recognises various aspects of Sherlock’s appearance as having been filched from different characters from a selection of medical soap operas. He decides they’re throwing away the telly when Sherlock’s finally stopped playing silly buggers and come home to 221B.

“Hello, my name is John,” says Sherlock’s name badge. John stares, wearily, at John.

“Sorry. Shall I move? This was the only free chair,” Not John notes in a curiously Swedish accent.

“It’s fine. Really,” Actual John sighs, “So, where do you work, John?”

“I’m a doctor. A surgeon. An otolaryngologist.”

There was no denying that what Sherlock lacked in actual disguise skills, he made up for with research. Presumably, John deduced, Sherlock had enjoyed an idle half hour with his practitioner’s texts and taught himself to perform a few minor surgeries.

“I’m visiting Guy’s,” Not John explains, “I’m from Sweden.”

“I gathered.”

Not John leans forward, casting Actual John further still into shadow, “I’ll return soon. I’ll return.”

John’s sipping his pint of ale and momentarily misses his queue to look fundamentally broken and in emotional tatters. He improvises and, when he has apparently met Not John’s grief quota, the man adds.

“To Sweden.”

“Of course.”

The buzzer, thank God, sounds again.

“By the way,” Actual John adds as Not John reluctantly stands up from the table, “We wound up with two men at one table and two women at another table on purpose. I’m not gay,” Actual John points out, “But I am a raging bisexual.”

Not John looks like he’ll combust. Every part of his face between his ears crumples inwardly in a frustrated bid to keep from shouting “Meretricious!” or “Elementary!” or “I FUCKING KNEW IT!”

A lovely little brunette with no obvious predilection for disguise hovers behind Not John, waiting for him to walk away from the table. Actual John wills him to. Eventually, having shoved his glasses back up his nose, Not John takes the hint and shuffles off.

“You’ll be seeing me, John,” he says. Unintentionally, John winds up taking his despair out on his next date by insisting vehemently that Sean Connery was the worst ever Bond when that’s actually, obviously, sacrilege.

**Question 4: How convincing a gay man is Sherlock Holmes?**

John’s got no idea if snorting with laughter is considered a legitimate answer on Mastermind but it ought to be.

Standing on the doorstep of Speedy’s and sipping a hot chocolate, John doesn’t expect the next thought to pop into his head to be “Phwoar, Sherlock looks alright in Calvin Kleins”. But then, that was life. Or rather, his life. People who didn’t become enmeshed in Sherlock Holmes’ reality probably thought otherwise.

And besides, John thinks, as he walks the few feet from Speedy’s to the doorway of 223A, he is being rather presumptuous. “Sherlock Holmes”? Unlikely.

“You are?” he asks, punctuating by blowing on his hot chocolate to cool it.

“Aidan,” the word’s said with an extraordinary level of campy, effeminate lilt considering it’s only got two syllables. John feels insulted on the behalf of an entire sexuality but decides to keep quiet, sip his drink and stare at Aidan’s navel. It’s very visible, John muses, through the skinny fit purple tank top Aidan’s sporting. Unbidden, John also decides that if Mycroft is Queen, Sherlock is the bloody Empress of the World or something.

Disguise, John’s arse. Self portrait.

“Hi Aidan. So you’re-“

“One of the married ones,” Aidan leans against the door frame of 223A and all of his muscles move and flex in a way that Michelangelo would definitely have appreciated.

“And how’s the marriage going?”

Aidan-the-Married-One catches his bottom lip sheepishly between his teeth for a moment before saying in an apparently guilty whisper.

“A little rocky. Maybe I should come over. Maybe I should come John.”

Impressive what you could achieve in two and a half years, John thinks. From unsubtle hints of a grand return to unnervingly homoerotic word play. He lowers his cardboard cup from his mouth and shrugs. 

“Sure, come over. Come in by the back door. Go up the back passage. Come twice if you want.”

Aidan opens his remarkably soft looking lips only to close them with a pout. John finishes his hot chocolate as the door of 223A is snapped, sulkily, shut.

**Question 5: How patient are you when it comes to Sherlock Holmes?**

Saintly.

“There’s a book salesman here to see you,” Mrs Hudson yells up the stairs.

“Were those a thing?” was John’s first thought. Did people actually do that in the 21st century? Wasn’t there a law against doorstep selling? Then again, he was getting ahead of himself.

Over the course of the last three years he had had encounters with:

A policeman, a banker, a lawyer, an accountant, a butcher, a baker, a pole dancer (shame he hadn’t come back), a robber, a schoolboy, a used car salesman, a croupier, a horse whisperer, the guy who tests drawer runners at Ikea, a minor Royal, a school governor, a dissatisfied wife (and that, thankfully, had been the first and the last of Sherlock’s forays into cross-dressing), an edgy inner city youth worker, a binman, a member of the London Philharmonic Orchestra, a children’s author, a porn star, a cleaner, an ex-convict, the owner of a delightful little bistro on Russell Square, a Z list celebrity from some reality show, a golfer, a tree surgeon, an indie musician with adorably mismatched socks, a doctor (couldn’t blame the guy for repetition), the man who invented Bananagrams, a football team’s mascot, a spy, a “Benedict Cumberbatch” impersonator (John had no clue), a wine merchant, a modern artist, a cheese maker, a local counsellor, a fortune teller, the guy who wrote jokes for crackers, a man who really liked Irn Bru, a guy with a hat, a guy without a hat, the waiter in any given restaurant where John was having a date, the customer assistant who would be very reluctant to sell John condoms in Boots, the voice on the tannoy on the London Underground, the model in a minor Paul Smith advertising campaign, a lamppost.

So, John thinks, door-to-door books salesman is really all that remains.

He opens the door to the man with a one-shouldered shrug. The bookseller, a hunch backed figure with long, greasy hair, creeps into 221B. John lets himself be convinced to make them both a cup of coffee while the bookseller discusses his wares in a Scottish grumble. Behind him John hears the desperate kerfuffle of Sherlock flinging off his coat, wig, straightening the crick from his back and pulling his most dramatic “John! Look! It’s me!” pose.

John returns with the two cups of coffee (milk, no sugar, black, two sugars) and pops them on the mantelpiece before turning to see-

“John!” Sherlock exclaims, arms thrown wide, “Look! It’s me!”

John takes a moment to stare at Sherlock like John Humphries might stare at someone whose specialist subject is LolCats. Then, John claps as slowly as is humanly possible.


End file.
